The Portrait of Daria Black
by Rae Roberts
Summary: Have you ever wondered about that horrible portrait of Sirius Black's mother in the hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place? Well I have, and this is the result.


Disclaimer: The concept is a shameless rip-off of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. The setting, characters, and other details are either taken directly from, or heavily inspired by, the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. The author does not claim to own any copyrighted material.

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The Portrait of Daria Black

by Rae Roberts

It was one of those perfect summer days that all too rarely happen, warm but not uncomfortably so, the sun shining down, benevolent and golden, with a gentle breeze ruffling through the leaves of the trees that shaded the manicured lawns of the Malfoy's summer estate. The sky above the young people's heads was a deep, clear blue, and the clouds... Baroque castles of porcelain and spun sugar, Daria thought, watching their reflections in the still waters of the lake. Mansions far grander than any belonging to the Malfoys, or even to the Blacks. She strolled along behind the others, lost in fancies of her own, until a pair of swans glided by. The ripples from their passage across the water sent tremors through the foundation of Yardley Castle, sinking the fantasy into the green depths of the lake.

"Look at the swans!" Phyliss clapped her hands like a child. "Are they not the loveliest things you've ever seen, Mirach?"

"I have seen one or two things that I consider to be lovelier, Miss Whimple," the young wizard replied with a smile.

Phyliss giggled and simpered, taking Mirach's hand in hers. Delphine's reaction to their flirtation was minimal, but Daria read anger in the set of her shoulders, the flash of her eyes, and tensed.

Delphine laid a pale, slender hand on the boy's shoulder. "Mirach," she purred, "Go and pluck one of those water lilies for me."

"And what will you give me in return?" he teased.

Delphine's lips curved in a smile that never quite reached her eyes. "A kiss... Perhaps."

"Perhaps, Miss Malfoy? Ah, but I don't wish to muddy my shoes or wet the hem of my robe for a mere perhaps."

Delphine pouted prettily. "But I desire a lily. You'll fetch me one, won't you, Phyliss?"

"Send Daria," Phyliss giggled. "She's outgrown her old robe; the hem is too short for the water to reach it."

Daria could feel the heat rising in her face. "I don't wish to muddy my shoes, either."

"Of course not, dear, forget I even asked," Delphine said kindly. "We know what a hardship it would be for you to have to replace them."

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The old man sat in a secluded corner of the gardens on a little conjured stool, his easel before him, his palette in one gnarled, liver-spotted hand. Daria sat down beside him on the grass, next to the magical old walnut box that held his supplies. How she loved that box—the hinged trays that unfolded like a hippogriff's wings, the myriads of drawers, and best of all, the hidden catches and sliding panels and false bottoms that revealed secret compartments. As a child, uncovering the box's mysteries had been one of her favorite games. The contents of the box were just as familiar, like old friends. The sable brushes with their ebony handles and brass ferules, large and small, flat or pointed or fan-shaped; the dull rounded palette knives; the bottles of linseed oil and spirits of turpentine. In her grandfather's hands, these mundane things made magic as real as anything she'd ever been taught at school.

He let her sit in silence for a long while, watching him as he filled a small canvas with roses and lavender, columbine and delphinium, each petal and leaf as perfect as the originals. "Why tarry here with an old man," he finally asked, "when surely the company of folk your own age would be more congenial?"

"I tire of their idle chat," she drawled, as cool as any Malfoy, but she tucked the skirt of her robe tighter under her knees to hide the thin line of faded fabric where the hem had been let down.

Lord Yardley noted everything but said nothing, seemingly devoting all of his attention to his palette.

Daria paid attention too, watching him select his colors from the little tubes with their chemical-sounding names: cadmium red, chromium yellow, phthalo blue, titanium white. He never painted in the winter any more, claiming that the cold aggravated his arthritis, making it painful to hold the brushes. She recalled the paltry fires that never quite dispelled the chill from the tall, narrow rooms of the London townhouse, and frowned.

Now he was coaxing a precious drop of pigment from a creased and flattened tube, then carefully screwing the cap back on and setting it aside, to be used again later. How long had it been since he'd bought new supplies? "Grandfather, why do you not take commissions?" she asked impulsively.

A spark kindled in the old man's eyes. "Painting is my hobby. I am an aristocrat, child, not a common tradesman."

"Lord Malfoy had Delphine's portrait made last year. It hardly even looked like her, and he paid three hundred galleons—"

"Enough!" His voice was soft, but Daria flinched as though he'd struck her. "No daughter of my house will engage in such goblin's gossip."

"My apologies, Grandfather."

He nodded and returned to his painting, but after a a few moments, he spoke again. "Look there, on the terrace, child. Tell me what you see."

Daria saw Lady Malfoy and Pellucida Whimple chatting amiably over their embroidery hoops. Lady Black was absorbed in a complicated piece of tatting. Darby Whimple, her father and Lord Black were all laughing at some joke of Lord Malfoy's. Daria's father's laugh was over-loud and his face was very red. In his hand was a glass of sherry, already half-empty. Her mother was absent from the scene, no doubt taken to her bed with one of her headaches. But Daria only said, "I see the adults laughing and talking together."

"You merely see the surface. This is what I see: The Malfoys and the Whimples each strive to stand highest in milord and milady Black's favor. Though they smile and pretend friendship, any one of them would cheerfully slip poison into their rival's cup, if only they could be certain of not being caught doing so." He set down his paintbrush, drew out his wand, and animated the painting with a single word.

"Oh, it's lovely, Grandfather!" Daria gazed in delight as the painted flowers nodded and swayed.

Lord Yardley watched them for a moment with a critical eye, then turned back to Daria. "Now tell me, can you name the prize for which the Malfoys and the Whimples do so furiously contend?"

"Mirach Black," she said promptly.

"Clever girl," he smiled at her. "You are correct. One of the young ladies present at Malfoy Manor this summer will be betrothed to young Master Black before the holidays are over."

"Mirach likes Phyliss best," Daria said, "but I think his parents will choose Delphine."

"Are you so certain?" he asked sharply.

"No, sir," she admitted. "The Malfoys are of the nobility...and wealthy," she added hesitantly, not certain if this obvious fact would be considered 'goblin's gossip.' Her grandfather nodded to her to continue. "The Whimples are far from poor, though, and Mr. Whimple has a great deal of political influence."

"You notice far more than you let on," Lord Yardley said approvingly, "but there is one candidate that you have neglected to mention."

"I don't understand, sir."

"Why should the Blacks not choose you, granddaughter?"

Daria looked down at her hands, demurely folded in her lap. The old man's question surprised and disturbed her. She found that she couldn't meet his eyes. "Father says that I may marry any man I choose, or even marry none at all," she finally blurted.

"Does he, now?" The old man's voice had grown soft again. "I would expect no better of a weakling and a coward." Daria's head jerked up. "Yes, a coward," he continued, low and intense. "It is unseemly to speak ill to a child of her own parents, but you are a child no longer. You will be of age soon, old enough to be betrothed... If only your father were other than what he is." His eyes flashed fire. "Unwilling—nay, _unable_—to grasp the power that was his birthright. To wield it, as was ever befitting of a sorcerer-son of a pure and ancient house. My own son! Weak, dissolute, content to squander his legacy. To let the Yardley name die out with his generation. To leave his blameless daughter with nothing."

Looking into her grandfather's burning eyes, Daria could imagine herself a queen, a dark and powerful sorceress robed in rich velvet, standing on the battlements of a mighty castle. No, she thought, not another childish fancy. I _am_ a daughter of an ancient and noble house! "I desire to reclaim my birthright," she said, choosing her words with care, "and to leave a noble legacy for my children. Help me, Grandfather. Tell me what I must do."

"There is a potting shed beyond the boxwood maze," the old man replied cryptically. "I espied young Miss Whimple slipping out of it, early this morn, before the rest of the household was even awake. Go there—make certain that you are not seen—and find out what you may. Do you understand?"

"Not entirely," Daria murmured. Her mind was racing.

Lord Yardley reached down and opened one of the drawers of the walnut box. A wave of his wand revealed a secret compartment that Daria was sure she'd never seen opened before. He drew out a small, cut-glass vial and pressed it into her hand. "I have every confidence in your intellect, granddaughter. You have no need of a doddering old man to tell you what to do. You will discover that on your own. The question is, once you have discovered what is to be done... Will you have the stomach for it?"


End file.
